


Cry

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Confessions, Curses, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gen, Gore, Manipulation, Season/Series 05, Small Towns, Southern Gothic, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6800665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a small stretch of land off I-95 sits Eulonia, a resident speed trap decorated in live oaks and only a few miles from the warm waters of the Atlantic. It was supposed to be an easy hunt—wife kills her husband and dumps half his body in the Altamaha, then mysteriously disappears afterwards. Maybe a domestic dispute or a witch gone rogue. Hell, maybe even a gator with a penchant for human flesh.</p><p>But not this. <i>Anything</i> but this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cry

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [SPN CaseFic Mini Bang](http://spncasefic.tumblr.com) challenge.

“It could be a vengeful spirit,” Sam muses in the passenger seat when Dean pulls up to the front lot of the Eulonia Motel, throwing the Impala in park in the deteriorated parking lot. Weeds grow up between cracks in the asphalt, probably last paved when the town had a zip code—not to say the place isn’t beautiful by any standard, but as far as ghost towns go, Dean has seen worse.

Along the marshes of the Altamaha River sits Eulonia, Georgia, a stone’s throw away from I-95 heading up to Savannah. Live oaks line the streets, the Spanish moss hanging from their limbs swaying in the light breeze, humidity almost an entity in itself as it seeps through the doors and windows, stifling. Never before has Dean ever felt it this bad, sweat immediately beginning to bead at his hairline the minute he drags himself out of the driver’s seat to stretch his limbs. They’ve been driving for a little less than a day, across the country from Palm Springs with nothing but the clothes on their backs and, now, the two hundred bucks he has in his wallet. That can last them a night or two, if they play their cards right. From what he can see, the place probably doesn’t charge much; it’s the only motel in town, and probably the only business aside from the Piggly Wiggly down the road.

It’s a tourist trap—and yet, they’re willingly _staying_ there, with shattered nerves and an Angel in their back seat, all of it boiling down to their last case. “Could be,” Dean grunts in reply, arms stretched high above his head. His spine pops, _finally_ , and he lowers himself to his soles, kicking his boots against the pavement. Sam follows his example and rests his hands on the Impala while Castiel slides from the back bench, brushing out the winkles in his coat. “I’ve never heard of one forcing someone to kill someone else, though.”

“It’s not implausible,” Castiel chimes in and rounds the Impala, stopping at the trunk when Dean takes the key fob from the ignition and tosses it to him. “If the spirit is powerful enough, they could control several people at a time, depending on their motive.”

Overhead, the sun beats down, overwhelming in the muggy air. It’s barely three in the afternoon; at this rate, the temperature will reach ninety-five by nightfall, worsened by the nearby swamp water. Cicada’s shriek in the surrounding forests, a constant litany of noise that makes him twitch the louder it gets.

Dean hates the South—hates the weather, the sand gnats that are insistent on eating his eyeballs while he’s _alive_ , the bugs that won’t go away, even after a full minute of just _standing_ there. For what he knows, this case is nowhere out of the ordinary. Last week, a woman slaughtered—actually _slaughtered_ —her husband in cold blood and tossed his body into the Altamaha, his head washing ashore somewhere downstream a day later. The Darien authorities arrived on her doorstep shortly after the discovery, only to find her gone, a trail of blood leading out the back door and into the marsh, disappearing beyond the water’s edge. No reason to suspect foul play on her part, they figured—maybe a gator wandered in and dragged her away in her sleep, or maybe the marks were from dragging her husband to the swamp, they didn’t know. Weren’t too inclined to _ask_.

At least, that was what the newspaper read. Sam’s still reading over the Brunswick News article, grayed paper now spread out atop the Impala’s roof. “That’ll catch fire if you leave it there,” Dean chuckles, much to Sam’s irritation. Castiel joins him with both of their duffels in hand, handing one off to Dean with Sam’s slung over his shoulder. “So, interview the witnesses,” Dean suggests, “find the cemetery, torch whoever’s playing mind control and call it a day. Sound good?”

“Crystal,” Sam says, eyes still on the newspaper. “Says Helen Warwick’s best friend, Caren Travis, tried calling her the day of the murder and the following morning. Her son was the one to find her husband’s head. Should we start there?”

Dean nods to the motel’s front office and slams the driver’s side door closed, something about the thunk soothing amongst the cry of cicadas. “Let’s go get suited up. I’ll dig up her number in the phone book.”

With that, Sam leaves for the office with Dean’s wallet in hand. After he disappears behind the door, Dean turns to Castiel, the Angel still standing there, two inches from his side. Flight instincts aside, Dean has grown used to it in the last year, having Castiel attached to his hip, whether it be case related or otherwise. He’s been with them for the last week, mostly under the guise of wanting to help them dispatch the werewolf pack that had taken up camp in a ranch home in the hills of Palm Springs. But mostly, Dean thinks he doesn’t want to go back to Heaven. It’s not safe anymore, Castiel always claims—he doesn’t want to see his siblings while they’re waging war over whether or not their Father is dead.

Dean doesn’t blame him, either. “You gonna stay?” he asks, like he always does. And Castiel, without fail, nods and hoists Sam’s bag higher, closer to his hip. If anything, Dean would have thought him a hunter if he weren’t constantly wearing a trench coat. Speaking of, “You should probably—take that off,” Dean says, motioning to Castiel’s coat. Castiel just cocks his head and purses his lips. “ _Jesus_ , Cas—it’s hot as balls out, people’re gonna think it’s weird that you’re out here in a three-piece suit.”

“You’re always so worried about how I dress,” Castiel considers, looking down at himself, at the grasshopper now sitting on his loafer. “I’ve told you before—.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can’t _feel_ things. Doesn’t mean other people _know_ that.” Dean just pats his shoulder, lets it linger a little too long; Castiel doesn’t seem to mind. “C’mon. We get in, I’ll let you borrow something.”

Inside the front office, Sam is locked in a heated conversation with a dark-skinned woman at the front desk, her hair braided into long rows along her scalp, all bundled up in a bun at the back. She’s obviously enamored with him, from the way her eyes flutter when he says something remotely interesting and the way their hands touch over the tabletop. Two minutes—Dean was outside for _two minutes_ , and Sam’s already hitting on someone. “You get our room?” Dean asks, snorting when he startles Sam into a near panic, the receptionist joining in at the sight of Sam’s flushed face.

Sam nods and fishes a key from his pocket, tossing it over to Dean. Once outside, he says, “Two singles, since they’re cheaper, and I got a night free on both.”

Dean barks a laugh and waves the room key in the air by the wooden door tag. “Later, Sam,” he says, jerking his head back to the parking lot. “Got places to be, remember?”

“Right.” Sam corrects himself and peeks his head back inside the office, adding, “I’ll be back at eight, Rebecca,” before he shuffles to join Dean and Castiel, Rebecca smiling at him through the door.

Dean rolls his eyes at his brother and leads the way. Inside one of the singles, Dean sets his duffel atop the king bed near the back of the room, the sheets decorated in some odd jade green-and-rose pattern he can’t even begin to describe. A two-drawer dresser sits by the far window, a television straight out of the nineties perched atop it next to a mini-refrigerator. Adjacent, a barely-adequate table backs up against the wall, two chairs resting to either side of it, old and worn. An air conditioner is permanently built into the wall, shut off until Castiel pads over and switches it down to seventy, just enough to take the heat out of the air.

He then promptly strips his coat off and throws it on top of Dean’s duffel—Castiel is staying with him for the night, apparently.

Sam goes to deposit his bag in his room next door while Castiel rids himself of his suit, the fabric tacky to the touch, soaked through with sweat just from being outside. “You’re sweating,” Dean comments and passes Castiel a pair of jeans and a nicer shirt, along with a deodorant stick and a hand towel from the bathroom. Maybe once they’re done at the Travis’ house, he and Castiel can hit the pool while Sam’s busy with his new girlfriend. “And you _reek_ , dude. When was the last time you showered?”

Castiel just throws him an exasperated glare and, shirt unbuttoned, peels it off, leaving it on the back of one of the desk chairs to dry. Dean swallows, throat dry. “You’ve never taken interest in my personal hygiene until recently,” Castiel muses, clearly curious. Dean would respond if he weren’t too busy staring at the play of Castiel’s back muscles as he wipes the sweat from his skin, toweling his hair a bit. “And you stare, too. More so than I do, I’m afraid.”

Dean scrubs his face and looks to the ceiling, desperately fighting the heat rising up his neck. He doesn’t need this right now, doesn’t need Castiel _observing_ him, like Dean doesn’t do that enough already. “You’re kinda—Just—.” He motions to Castiel, like he expects him to interpret just what he means by hand gestures. Why is it so hard to talk? _Stop staring, you idiot._ “Just—put a shirt on.”

And Castiel, the tease, watches him while he _does_ it, pulling the black cotton over his head and ruffling his already messy hair further; Dean concentrates on not swallowing his tongue the entire time. His pants are next, and Dean actually darts away that time, taking a change of clothes with him to the bathroom. Sitting there on the toilet lid, he wills his heart rate to steady while staring at his jeans on the lip of the bath tub. Paint has chipped away from the porcelain in some areas, and a worn patch rests at the bottom of the basin from too many people having stood or sat there since the motel was built in the first place. He’s been in worse spaces; at least this one doesn’t have mold.

He takes another second to catalog the bathroom before he changes his clothes, swapping from a sweat-damp t-shirt into something dryer, a black button down tucked into his jeans. It won’t be comfortable by any means, but he has to keep up the façade. If anyone notices anything remotely out of sorts, they’re out on their ass faster than they can make it back to the car.

 _This won’t take long_ , Dean tells himself, buttoning the front of his shirt. _We’re in and out, we’ll get back on the road by Tuesday._

Sam is chatting with Castiel by the time Dean wanders back in, both of them bent over Sam’s laptop, his brother enthusiastic about whatever’s on the screen. “There’s something that’s not making sense, though,” Sam says, oblivious to Dean standing over his shoulder. Displayed are photos from whatever’s left of Dan Warwick’s corpse, alongside another man with his intestines missing and neck ripped out. Gruesome, but the disembowelment back in Tulsa holds the record for nastiest thing he’s ever seen. “Dierks Carver died a week before either of the Warwicks, and no one mentioned his death until Mrs. Warwick went missing. But it looks like he was—.”

“Eaten,” both Dean and Castiel say in unison. Pushing his way between them, Dean scrolls down the page with the touchpad, eyeing the differences between their bodies—or, a body and a quarter. Their necks bear similar marks, almost like something attempted to bite its way in; puncture wounds accentuate the tears, the indentation of fangs visible near both of their ears. “Giant python?”

“Constrictors don’t bite,” Castiel states, his brows furrowed as he examines each photograph. “And it’s highly unlikely a snake larger than an Eastern Diamondback would be this far north, especially near the coast.”

“So, no snakes.” Sitting back, Sam taps his fingers on the side of his laptop, rhythmic, almost annoying. Better than the cicadas. “Werewolf?”

“Heart’s not missing,” Dean retorts, arms crossed. “Chupacabra?”

“No cattle mutilations,” Castiel adds. “There aren’t many farms in this area.”

The list rattles on and on—none of the signs match up, and none of them are willing to admit that an alligator would intentionally leave an intact body behind, no matter how full they were. And that doesn’t explain Helen Warwick’s missing body or the supposed blood trail leading from her bedroom into the yard. They’ll need to get her address from the Travis’, figure out what happened from there. “We still need to go across town to see Caren.” Closing the laptop, Sam stands, stretches. “See if she knows anything different than what the pictures are telling us.”

“We can check with the coroner tomorrow, as well,” Castiel adds, slipping on his tennis shoes.

Darien may be only twenty minutes away, but the coroner’s office closed an hour ago, the doors locked when they originally drove through the city. Rather than piling into the Impala and heading that way, they opt to stay close to the motel and walk across town along the side of the road, following the directions from Castiel’s phone, cell reception shoddy at best. The Warwicks, as it turns out, are next door to the Travis’, both of their homes backing up to the marshes, a brook of the Altamaha running about a hundred yards from their backyard. They’re both single story dwellings, with probably not more than one bedroom and bathroom, with a porch that wraps around every side of the home.

Caren Travis answers the door on the first knock, her gray hair bright in the southern sun, sticking up at every angle. She’s oddly excited about their visit, her previously pensive face suddenly overcome with pure excitement, just from someone showing up. “Oh now Bobby, come look! We got city folk on our doorstep!” she yells and grabs Dean by the face, kissing him square on the forehead and undoubtedly leaving behind a large blue lipstick stain. Behind him, Sam laughs behind his hand; it’s not enough to stop Caren from noticing though, and she crosses the short expanse of her patio to grab Sam and kiss either side of his face, following with Castiel, leaving all three of them bewildered.

Dean doesn’t get a chance to interject or even open his mouth before Caren is on him again, her wrinkled hands clasped on his shoulders. “Now y’all c’mon in, we were _just_ about to have supper,” she drawls with a grin, yellowed eyes glinting every time she moves. There’s a draw to her that Dean can’t understand; he doesn’t know why he follows her into her home without so much as a ‘why.’ Sam and Castiel trail in without question, and within the hour they’re stuffed with what has to be the best ham he’s ever had in his _life_.

Not once has Dean seen Caren’s husband.

“I don’t know what to tell you boys,” Caren explains later on her patio, Dean and Castiel sitting side by side on the porch swing, Sam in an iron chair across from their accidental hostess. “Susanna’s never seemed like the killin’ type. She ain’t never hurt nobody nohow, and she absolutely _adored_ Benjamin. Their kids are just _crushed_ , all this talk about her killin’ him for the insurance money. Their oldest, Jason. Lord, he’s a sweetheart—he came by yesterday to pick up some things. Y’all’re welcome to go over and see if you can find anythin’ else.” She sits back in her rocking chair, kicking her feet. “Who’d y’all say you were with again, NCIS?”

“FBI, ma’am,” Sam tells her.

“Y’all all look the same to me,” she shrugs at him. “You look kinda like that cute one on TV, that Dinozzo fella. Have you ever been to see the White House?”

Dean’s still full and barely listening to their exchange anymore, in desperate need to unbutton his pants; Castiel isn’t faring much better, though he does look brighter than normal, his arms a rich tan. Maybe that was what he needed, just to _eat_ —maybe his Grace is failing him faster than they all anticipated. Maybe there are other things Castiel’s not letting them in on, including the fact that he _slept_ last night, lost in fitful dreams until the morning. It’s more disconcerting than probably necessary, and given the chance, Dean would ask him about it.

But not here, in some unincorporated town not even listed in a Rand McNally. “Ma’am, if you would,” Castiel speaks up, diverting her attention from Sam. Sam glances at the both of them in desperation; across from Sam, Caren is having the time of her life, still laughing at whatever she said to he seconds ago. “Did you see anything strange recently, possibly from the marsh?”

“The marsh?” Caren glances up at the ceiling and furrows her brows, bare toes tapping the red-painted floorboards. “Only thing I seen out there’s been the gators and ol’ Jacob out there with his fan boat. Gives those damn things a run for their money. But,” she thumbs to her house, her eyes narrowed conspiratorially, “there _is_ that legend ‘bout the snake monster that lives in these parts.”

Dean’s eyes widen minutely; leaning forward, he clasps his hands between his knees. “Snake monster?” he ventures.

“Big’n, too,” Caren says with a nod. “Say she’s ‘bout a twenty footer. Swims ‘round the inlets and gets up in people’s yards at night, snatches up their pets. They ain’t never make a noise, either. Just one mornin’, they’re up ‘n gone, like they ain’t never been there in the first place. Some say she can look just like a human too, ‘cept she’s got red eyes and great big scales on the back’a her neck. An’ she’ll sneak in people’s houses and snatch ‘em up, take ‘em down to the marsh ‘n drown ‘em. Say she feeds on the weak ones, too, the ones she can trick into thinkin’ they ain’t worth the ground they walk on.” She stops and laughs, something about it leaving Dean’s stomach dropping. “But, that’s just an ol’ wive’s tale. I doubt it’s true.”

They finally manage to worm their way away from Caren’s porch a while later, after she attempted to—and successfully—lured Dean back inside for dessert. Or, that was his excuse. While she had been pulling a pecan pie from the oven and taking a container of freshly made ice cream from her freezer, he had glanced around the kitchen, noting nothing spectacular. Almost cookie cutter, now that he thinks about it in hindsight, something out of a home and garden catalog, with clean curtains and a four-seater dining table with a blue-and-white cloth draped over it, ornate placemats resting before each chair. Even the cabinets looked new, almost reflective in the mid-afternoon light, soon fading into evening.

“You have a—lovely home,” Dean had commented offhand, waving his hand to the curio in the corner and the display of multiple sets of house keys by the window, rusted and word at the edges. A shiver had run up his spine at the sight, coiling in his palm, fingers twitching around nothing.

“Well, I’m glad you enjoy it, honey,” she had cooed, eyes alight. “Ain’t never get guests ‘cept for my grandkids, and they ain’t never come over here ‘cept when it’s Christmas time.” Cutting from her pan, she had dished him a slice and follows it up with more than enough ice cream from her container, the scent of pecans and brown sugar heavy in his nose. “And since y’all ain’t from around here, I figure I gotta treat these city folk right, right?”

“Right,” Dean had echoed. She shoved the plate and a fork at him, apparently intent on watching him eat, like she hadn’t already done that through dinner. Cautiously, he had cut a piece and shoved it into his mouth, unprepared for what he found. It was _delicious_ , almost addictive in its first bite; she laughed as he moaned his pleasure, pointing his fork at her. “You gotta give me this recipe,” he had said through another mouthful.

“That dies with me,” she chuckled, not even trying to mask her contempt. “Now, you just eat up. I’ll go entertain your partners out there.”

Dean had polished off the rest of the dessert and struggled with the near-uncontrollable urge to lick the plate clean before heading back onto the patio, where Sam and Castiel are waiting for him with matching lipstick stains on their cheeks. “She get you again?” Dean says and wipes his mouth clean.

Sam just rolls his eyes and jerks his head to the Warwick’s home over his shoulder. “You still think we should check it?” he asks. “Doesn’t look like the cops are coming back any time soon.”

“The case is most likely closed, either way,” Castiel adds, attempting to scrub the lipstick from his cheek, only smearing it further. Dean licks his thumb and rubs it off before he can think better of it, pointedly ignoring the bewildered look Sam shoots him. Castiel is his friend, after all—Castiel also isn’t accustomed to wiping off grandma kisses.

He only bats away Dean’s hand after Sam clears his throat, his cheeks flushed; from the heat or the fact Dean was _touching_ him, Dean doesn’t know. “We’ll—check the house,” Dean stumbles, hand to the back of his neck.

Sam leads the charge ultimately, the three of them crossing the yard and passing through a gap in the hedges, happening upon a home eerily similar to Caren’s, only reversed and overgrown. Dan Warwick apparently skipped out on his lawn maintenance duties before he died; weeds grow all across the lawn, grass dead in large patches, especially under the oak by the gravel driveway. Said oak is a gust away from toppling over, its limbs sagging low to the ground, several cracks visible even from a distance. Ivy grows over the façade and onto the roof, wrapping around the chimney— _Useless_ , Castiel has always called them, especially the further south they drive. When was the last time these people saw snow, anyways?

Dean breaks through the padlock left around the front door knob, probably some cop’s attempt to keep out trespassers. “Couldn’t even afford to get a decent one,” Dean muses as he pushes the door open; Sam snickers at his back and allows Castiel past.

Compared to Caren’s home, the Warwicks was a certifiable nightmare: furniture tossed into corners with shattered lamps on the carpet, television busted through, every knife imaginable thrown either into the kitchen counter or the wall nearest the door. Pots and pans on the floor, bedding dragged out into the hall, bloodstains leading through the house and out the back door. “Don’t think this was a gator,” Sam comments, the collar of his shirt pressed over his nose; at some point, the refrigerator door had been left open, rotted food pungent in the air. Dean gags the closer he walks, and by some miracle, he makes it to the master bedroom without hurling onto the hardwood floor.

Castiel, of course, is unfazed, only wrinkling his nose when he peeks into the kitchen and shuts the offending door. “No sulfur,” Sam announces from the living room. Castiel is already out in the backyard, no doubt following the blood trail.

Dean’s attention, however, lingers in the bedroom, on the red-stained bedding and framed portraits all shoved to the floor, shattered glass crunching under his feet. Hand prints and claw marks streak the Warwick’s comforter and lead out into the hall, all evidence that she had been dragged violently out of the room and onto the back porch. “Sammy,” he calls out, still fixated on the floorboards and a lone hairbrush on the nightstand, the curtains blowing in the wind gusting through the broken window.

Something about it strikes him as odd, from just the state of the room. Werewolves wouldn’t snatch someone out of their bed in the middle of the night; ghouls would leave the body intact. Spirits couldn’t manifest that much energy, and certainly wouldn’t pull someone into the marsh to let them drown. Vetalas, wraiths—none of it makes sense. They would have at _least_ left a body behind, something he could work with. This is—he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Looks like some kind of a struggle,” Sam announces at his back.

Dean jerks around with a hand to his waistband, falling away from his gun in quick realization. “Gonna give me a damn heart attack,” he grouses and pushes Sam’s shoulder, earning a scowl. Sam’s hands twitch at his side, almost flexing; Dean ignores it, swallows down the idea that Sam would actually hit him back. “You ever see anything like this?”

Sam glances over the room and shakes his head, arms crossed, brows pinched in thought. “Looks like she was awake when whatever it is dragged her out,” he considers. “You think what Caren said was true?”

“Startin’ to look like it.” Treading across the room, Dean pulls the blinds open, finding nothing but a hole in the glass and another oak tree, this one healthier than its sibling in the front yard. Castiel stands in the distance, kneeling over something in the marsh. “Either that, or we’ve got a rabid gator on our hands. What d’you think, Lake Placid Gone Country? Lady stopped feedin’ her baby and it turned on her?”

Sam shakes his head with a snicker. “Unless she was feeding it her _husband_ , I’m gonna have to go with no.”

It still doesn’t make sense. But to his memory, he doesn’t recall anything remotely serpentine deliberately attacking people, unlike that rattlesnake that got his ankle back in Albuquerque last month; damn thing still aches if he turns it right. John hadn’t listed anything in his journal about it either; independent research might help.

Or even asking Castiel. “I found an arm,” is Castiel’s only statement when Dean and Sam find him half sunk in the mud, his shoes and pants discarded underneath the oak nearby. Dean pointedly keeps his eyes lowered, inwardly fighting off the flush rising to his cheeks at the sight of Castiel in his boxers. The sight of the mangled arm thankfully kills any and all lesser thoughts, the damn thing riddled with maggots and a crayfish stubbornly clinging to the exposed bone. “I’m beginning to believe Helen didn’t kill herself.”

“Ya think?” Dean scoffs, a hand over his eyes.

“Is there anything else in there?” Sam asks, always reasonable.

Through the gap between his fingers, he watches Castiel shake his head and walk the severed limb over to the two of them. Sam plucks the crawdad off and tosses it back into the marsh, wiping his hands off on his pants afterwards. “Bite marks,” Castiel observes, a steady finger pointing at the three puncture wounds around where the elbow should’ve been. “Much larger than the alligators in these waters, and it doesn’t look to be canine. And there aren’t reports of large felines this far south either.”

“So—Snake?” Dean suggests, a hand over his mouth. It’s the only thing that makes sense, based off of the evidence and all of Castiel’s observations, and the significant lack of body left behind. But snakes swallow their prey whole—how were they staring at a gnawed off arm? “…Or were-coyote? I got no friggin’ clue.”

Sam just shoots him a look, eyes rolled back into his head. “It’s not a _were-coyote_ ,” both he and Castiel echo, afterwards glancing at each other with contempt. Dean cocks a brow. “We should check the lore, though,” Sam says with a shrug. “See if there’re any weird monsters that like to leave half a body behind.”

Dean nods and wipes the sweat beading at his nape. “I don’t know about you guys, but I saw a bar out by the Stop ‘n Shop.” He pats Castiel’s shoulder, tacky with sweat; for the first time, he feels Castiel shiver and shy away, just enough. “You guys coming?”

Sam offers a shrug and turns to Castiel, who pitches the severed arm back into the swamp. The ridges of a gator’s back break the surface nearby; Dean doesn't want to be here to watch it _feed_. “You go ahead, we’ll catch up,” Sam suggests, and thumbs back to the motel. “Besides, air conditioning sounds like a safe bet right now.”

-+-

Eulonia, for the most part, exists only as a census designated town. There’s a few mom ‘n pop restaurants, several hardware stores, a Citgo, a package store, and apparently a bar occupying what once attempted to be a strip mall, next door to the most pitiful excuse of a police station in existence. Eleven o’clock in the evening, and Dean’s the only one at the bar, the only other occupants being four college kids who’re parked at one of the hexagonal tables in the corner, playing a terribly quiet game of Texas Hold’em with a collection of shotgun shells as chips.

It’s quiet, compared to other bars he’s been in. A steady flow of Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn plays through the loudspeakers in the corners, the songs dull in his ears, near silent. Even the bartender looks bored, drying the same glass for the past half hour, eyes lazily glued to the television on the other end of the bar. Something about temperatures along the coast rising even more, all ahead of a storm front set to roar past within the next two days. Great—if they don’t solve this soon, they’ll be stuck indoors while God tries to blow the town away.

Overhead, the song changes from _After the Fire is Gone_ to Keith Whitley, the lyrics tugging at something in his head that makes him slump, exhausted. He downs the last of his shot and rubs around the rim, letting it wobble under his fingertip. They said they were coming; Castiel had promised, and Sam declared once he finished scouring Google for everything it was worth, they would both join him down the road.

That had been three hours ago. The clock on the wall reads 11:43 when Dean finally grabs his coat from the rack, paying for his drinks and tipping the bartender probably more that necessary. From the look of him, he probably needs it, having to wait for patrons that never come, or tourists looking to party before they reach Florida or the coast. The bartender waves as Dean leaves, pushing his way out of one of the double doors into the night. Humidity seeps through to the bone even nearing midnight, the temperature probably near eighty and stabilizing. Part of him wonders how they stand it—the other half wonders why they bother.

Neon flashes off of the Impala’s hood as Dean walks across the gravel, stones crunching beneath his boots. He wants answers—wants to know why they never came, why neither of them will answer their phone. But Castiel’s normally faking sleep at this hour, and Sam probably took the receptionist to bed. The least they could have done was _texted_ him. He can’t bring himself to drive back the half mile, though, the distance too much of a confirmation that they never intended to leave the motel. Promises mean nothing, apparently.

“’S been a while coming, I guess,” Dean says at Baby’s side, running his hand along her pearlescent roof. He smiles, bittersweet, and climbs inside, not even bothering to start the engine. Sam still hasn't responded to the text he sent five minutes before; worse, Castiel _read_ his messages and hasn't replied. Calling doesn't work; he gives up after another ten minutes of attempts and starts the engine, pulling out of the lot and heading back onto the two-lane. The town sleeps as he drives past residential homes and shuttered businesses, the faint glow of streetlamps guiding him back.

Outside, his and Castiel’s room light is on; Sam’s room is silent, the moon bathing the property in pale light. Dean has half the mind to rush through the door when he enters; the whiskey burns a sour hole in his gut, its effects worn off in the last half hour. No where near enough to get him drunk, but enough to make him antsy, paranoid. The entire town gives him hives the longer he stays there, the longer he feels eyes on him at all hours. At his back, a tabby strolls from underneath a tree and jumps on the Impala’s hood, perching itself there. Yellow eyes watch him, curious.

He can’t even find it in him to shoo it away. Too tired, too wary, the weight of the day bearing down on him the longer he remains awake. He unlocks the door and finds Castiel curled under the sheets on his side of the bed, his back to Dean when he closes the door and relocks the latch. The bedside light flickers with age; Dean shuts it off after he unlaces his boots and kicks them to the side, barely managing to get his jeans off of his legs before he falls back onto the mattress, the sound of cicadas his only company.

“Cas?” Dean whispers, low. No answer; he reaches over to touch Castiel’s shoulder, feeling him shiver under his hand, his skin clammy, near frigid. “Cas,” he repeats and rears up, pushing Castiel flat onto the bed. Castiel blinks his eyes open and lets out a choked breath, almost in gratitude. Dean’s heart settles; Castiel’s not dead.

“I was dreaming,” Castiel admits, covering his eyes with his forearm.

Dean quirks a brow. “You’re having nightmares now?” he asks. Castiel nods and rolls back over, pulling the sheets up over his shoulder again. “…You wanna tell me what that means?”

“Nothing important,” Castiel says, a blatant lie. Dean just ignores it and pulls off his jacket and shirt, tossing them to the floor. He’ll pick them up tomorrow; for now, he lays atop the sheets and stares up at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach as he traces the cracks, until the shapes pull him under.

-+-

The morning is wrong, all wrong. Something heavy weighs in Dean’s chest when he wakes, an unseen force that eventually spreads through his body, leaving him lethargic in bed, sweating and uncomfortable under the sheets. Not the flu, or food poisoning, he figures—if it were, he would’ve been sick already. Maybe just the amount of food he ate the day before, or the exhaustion of hunting for three weeks straight without a break. Blinking at the ceiling, he listens to the steady hum of cicadas outside the motel room and what sounds like that cat growling a few doors down, the air conditioner off for the time being.

Castiel lays quiet at Dean’s side, his steady, rhythmic breaths bringing him some sort of calm amidst the quiet, amidst the unease burning in his gut. “Cas,” he whispers after a while, eyes locked on a crack running along the popcorn ceiling.

Castiel doesn't respond immediately, just makes a snuffling noise while he pulls himself out of whatever trance he’s put himself in, his version of sleeping whenever he’s exhausted, humanity seating itself deep within his bones. “Your voice is grating this early,” Castiel grouses, eyes finally blinking open. Sitting up, he turns to look at Dean, at his flushed face and wary eyes; Dean swallows under the attention, under Castiel’s hand as he presses it to his forehead. “Something’s wrong.”

“Figured that,” Dean mumbles. Castiel helps him upright and keeps his hand there, his other hand pressed to Dean’s neck, over his pulse point. “You think you can fix it?”

“I don’t know if something’s necessarily _wrong_ with you.” Castiel removes his hands, that familiar tingle of Grace nonexistent when Castiel pulls away, confusion narrowing his eyes. “You feel… exhausted. Warm, but not ill.”

“’S probably bein’ on the road,” Dean slurs. He curls back under the sheets facing Castiel’s hip, the Angel apparently having slept in his boxers the night before. For once, Dean doesn't feel compelled to reach out, his arms dead weight at his side. “’M just tired—.”

“I’m worried,” Castiel interjects, too abrupt for Dean’s liking. Like it’s been forced from his lungs, his vocal cords not agreeing with him. Sensing this, Castiel scratches at his throat, letting his fingers rest there. “…I haven’t seen you like this before,” he continues, softer now.

 _You shoulda been at the bar, then_. Dean shrugs—or at least attempts to—and closes his eyes; Castiel pets through his hair, his Grace tingling along his scalp but not doing much to alleviate the growing ache inside him. This isn’t normal—he shouldn't feel like death. “You think it’s a curse?” Dean says, mostly to himself.

Castiel answers anyway, his voice calm, still clipped; Dean’s heart thuds in his chest, a trembling rhythm. “It could be a number of things, but a curse isn’t likely.” Still, Dean doesn’t believe him—can’t, not when he feels halfway to passing out. He can’t drive like this, not when he can’t tell whether he wants to sleep or bolt out of the motel room.

In the end, sleep wins out, and he wakes two hours later to Castiel and Sam bickering on the other side of the room, voices hushed and pensive. Sam alternates between resting his hands on his hips and pointing in Dean’s direction while Castiel stands solid, contempt radiating off him in waves. It’s terrifying, watching them; something dark clouds Sam’s eyes, almost sinister—and Castiel is apparently the only thing stopping him, albeit with reluctance. From the way Castiel’s hands twitch, Dean can tell he’s not far off from snapping as well.

 _Curse_ , he thinks and closes his eyes, feigning ignorance. The longer he can fake sleep, the longer they’ll leave him alone, at least until someone leaves the room. Childish, but it works; Sam leaves for his own room after a louder exchange and slams the door behind him, leaving Castiel standing there, staring at a corner of the room. “What’re you two fighting about now?” Dean asks through the silence, leaning back on his elbows.

Castiel joins him after a long moment, his legs moving like they aren’t under his full control. “Sam is under the impression that we need to take separate tasks for today,” he says, solemn and cold. Dean reaches out to touch his knee before he can stop himself, a small semblance of comfort. Castiel pulls away at the last second and seats himself at the desk instead, looking anywhere other than Dean. Dean lets his hand drop at the rejection, guilt growing, even deeper than the full body ache that bears down on his bones. He needs pills, something to shake the pain off, just for a few hours. The bar sounds good; if only it weren’t morning. “He’s planning to investigate the marshes, and you and I are going into Darien.”

Dean snorts and sits up, palms pressed into his eyes. “Like it when you get all bossy on me, Cas,” he joshes. Castiel doesn't reply, only stares off into nothing, eyes locked on the motel door. “…You sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” Castiel assures, and finally looks back at Dean, one of his eyes bloodshot, iris dilated. Dean swallows down the implications of what it might just mean. _Not a curse_ , he tells himself. _Cas said it’s not a curse_.

But it’s starting to look like it.

“Don’t know ‘bout you,” Dean begins as he pulls himself from bed, skin tacky with sweat, “But I’m gonna need breakfast if we’re gonna start running around town.”

Castiel nods and stands, minutely shaky on his feet. But Castiel’s fine—he’s a damn liar, but he said he’s _fine_. Dean takes it for what it is and, a fresh change of clothes in hand, shuts himself in the bathroom. In the mirror, he catches just how pale he is, how haunted his eyes look; the sight sends a pang through his heart, almost painful.

 _We’re both fine,_ he lies to himself. Turns the showerhead on hot. _We’re all fine_.

-+-

Breakfast is even worse. The Eulonia Diner sits on the opposite end of the crossroads as the Beverage Center, the walls and floors decked out with wood paneling from top to bottom, pictures and retro movie posters lining every possible surface surrounding the windows. A tricycle hangs from the rafters, along with half a kayak and a shark-bit surfboard. A decorative plastic palm tree rests along the wall of each booth, the seats probably repurposed pews, based on how many scratches are worn into the surfaces. The tables don't fare any better, names etched into the wood, phone numbers and ‘Jamie Loves Brad’ and countless other names.

Dean has half the mind to carve his own before the waitress delivers their food. She’s the happiest person he’s seen in days, her smile almost giving him enough hope to forget the morning and how the very thought of moving hurts his joints. That elation lasts him a total of five minutes, Sam’s voice shattering the companionable silence they’d been sharing since they got there.

“You sure you’re alright?” Sam ventures, unconcerned. Dean glances up from his picked at breakfast, the entire idea of food unappealing. “You look like shit.”

“Feel like I went ten rounds with Jose Cuervo,” Dean answers through a sigh. Neither Sam nor Castiel respond, Castiel too busy watching his reflection in his coffee mug, half drank and probably cold by now. He reaches over to pat Castiel’s knee, Castiel’s leg shifting away in response. Dean clears his throat, tries not to think about it. “Think this town’s startin’ to get to me.”

 “You’re telling me,” Sam scoffs. “You haven’t stopped complaining since we got here. Between the weather and the food, I don’t think you’ve said anything positive once.”

“Sam’s right,” Castiel joins in, finger tracing the rim of his mug. Dean blinks, glances between the two like they’ve lost their _damn_ minds. Where in the world did _that_ come from? “And your insistence on touching me is grating.”

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam continues, sitting back. “You really think that’s a good idea? People are gonna _notice_ you, for God’s sakes, especially in this town. Think the preacher owns this joint.”

Dean swallows under the attention, his hand fisted on his own knee, the other setting his fork down. Something’s not right—from the way they look at him, the way Castiel keeps pulling away, the words falling from their lips. Sam watches him with quiet anger in his eyes; Castiel won’t even look in his direction, let alone make idle conversation.

 _Curse_ , his mind supplies again, ever helpful. “You’re right,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, and he finally pushes his plate away, eggs cold and congealed; they weren’t any good, anyway. It was a stupid idea to start with, taking on this case, attempting to make life a little easier for Castiel despite their circumstances. It wouldn't have led anywhere, anyway. As close as they’ve gotten in the last few weeks, it’s apparently all meant nothing. Fishing out his wallet from his jacket pocket, Dean pulls a twenty and throws it on the table. “Right, I’ll just… I’ll walk back. Don’t wanna cause a scene.”

Dean leaves through the double glass doors with Sam’s glare on the back of his neck, back into the sweltering morning heat. The sun is already beating down on the blacktop, heating his shoes as he walks across the lot and back down the road, a little under a mile away from their room. They still have to head into the city center and visit the morgue, check out the library; for once, Dean doesn’t think he can stomach it.

-+-

The drive from Eulonia into Darien is quiet, for the most part, the wind whipping through the open windows while they head down the two lane. For the first time that trip, Dean keeps his hands to himself, fighting the itch to reach out and cup Castiel’s knee, like he always did when Castiel rode shotgun. Castiel still isn’t looking at him; it nearly took a miracle to get in the car in the first place, Castiel practically slapping his hand away when Dean had reached out to him.

Friendly gesture—that was all it had been, something they had _always_ done. And never once had Dean thought it was _grating_ , or annoying. Castiel had initiated at first, after all; Dean just followed along, more than willing to take whatever he could get, Castiel’s touch more of a comfort in recent days than anything he had ever felt. Warm hands—those hands now sat balled in Castiel’s lap, knuckles white with strain. Part of Dean wishes he could cover them with his own. But Dean is toxic, apparently; he restrains himself in unspoken compromise, settling for gripping the wheel instead, eyes to the road.

“What you said back there,” Dean says as they pull into the city limits. The library sits a few dozen feet from the coroner’s office, leaving Dean to pull into the lot for Darien Telephone Company, a restaurant perched between the two buildings. After throwing the Impala into park, he turns to Castiel, just enough, remorse written across his face. “…Didn’t know it bothered you so much, the whole… touching thing.” He unlocks the doors. “Won’t happen again.”

“Good,” is all Castiel says, and leaves him for the morgue.

At least that’s settled.

Dean sits for a minute to collect himself, long enough to garner attention from a maintenance worker parked at his side, probably on his lunch break. It’s stupid—none of it should bother him. Sam’s said hateful things to him before, and Castiel as well, but never like _this_. Intentionally degrading, completely without humor. They weren’t like this last night, at least, from what he had noticed.

Maybe Mrs. Travis had something to do with it, after all.

Running a hand through his already damp hair, Dean leaves the Impala and crosses the parking lot toward the Ida Hilton Public Library. It looks like a residential house, all white brick and red-shingle roofed, a tree and several bushes blocking out most of the window view. Inside, a group of school children on a weekend field trip sit around several tables reading while their chaperone’s chat in a far off corner.

A librarian meets him at the front desk, her red hair falling in waves down her back and over her shoulders, glasses pushed flush to her face. Green eyes meet him with glee, a smile spreading across her lips. “Now, I gotta say. I know everyone in this town, but I can’t put a name to your face,” she says with humor, pointing a red-painted nail at him. “You got a name, stranger?”

“It’s Dean,” he laughs back, fighting the hollowness in his chest. It earns him another smile and reddened cheeks; maybe he can sweet-talk his way through this trip easier than he thought. Elbows on the counter, he continues, “I’m studying folk tales upstate, and since I’m in town for the weekend, I was wondering if you could lead me in the right direction?”

The librarian—Loretta, her nametag reads—claps her hands and thumbs behind her, in the direction of a few long book shelves and an oak door. “You’re in luck, then, Dean. We got a section in the back that don’t get read much, but it’s probably got everything you need. What’s your heart set on: urban legends, Gullah culture, mythology?”

“Mythology,” he confirms.

Loretta leads him around her desk and to the back of the building, past unused desks and to a shelf lined with old hardbacks, dust decorating each one. “Don’t think anyone’s checked anything out back here in a while, but you’re free to pick through. ‘S always good seein’ someone back here. We don’t get a lot of city folk in here, most’a ‘em just head to the beach and drive on by.”

Dean nods along and peers through the titles, occasionally pulling out titles that sound close to where he’s searching— _County Legends_ , _Myths of the Golden Isles_ , a book of county records documenting potentially haunted houses. At his side, Loretta pulls out a volume on Cryptids and hands it to him, adding, “I read this one last year. My dad’s into this kinda stuff, the whole ‘What’s Out There’ thing. Thinks Bigfoot’s real, too. Was there anything you were lookin’ for, in particular?”

Taking Loretta’s addition and his three selections, Dean sets them on a nearby table and sits, _Folklore of the Gullah Geechee_ spread out before him. “Have you heard anything about a snake creature in the swamps around here?” he ventures, chin propped up in his palm. “One that can turn into a human?”

Loretta looks to the ceiling, lip between her teeth. Across the library, someone calls to her, probably her boss. “Not a snake,” she says in a rush, folding her arms. “But there is somethin’ ‘bout a cat. Check that one, there’s a whole section there.”

She runs towards the front before Dean can thank her, leaving him with the few dusty books and the urgent need to sneeze. The volume doesn't offer much aside from scattered myths and cultural references, and one lone page on something called the Baylynx of the Altamaha. Above the description is a photograph of an animal carved into a rock, the cat donning feathers around its collar and a row of sharp spines running down its back, its tail forked in two at the end.

[ ](http://imgur.com/wguud8U)

‘ _The Baylynx_ ,’ the passage begins, ‘ _mostly resides within the swamps surrounding the Isles and only hunts at night, feeding on those whom themselves are vulnerable or soiled in sin. She takes on a human shape when necessary and befriends her victims, normally over the process of days or weeks. She is said to drive her victims into madness by turning their loved ones against them, and subsequently eats them all over a period of hours. She is reported to have yellow eyes and smell strongly of roses._ ’

So that explained the smell in the Travis’ house. Something hadn’t been right about her from the start, something he nor Sam or Castiel could figure out after they returned that evening. “She’s just an old lady,” Sam had dismissed with a shrug. “They normally smell like flowers. Or Bengay.”

But not _that_ strongly. And never before had someone thrown such an obvious red herring at them, in hindsight. None of the killings were in any way remotely reptilian—he doesn't know why he didn’t think of it before. “There’s no evidence of reptilian attack,” Castiel states, abrupt, nearly startling Dean into a coronary.

Dean swallows air in an attempt to breathe, beating his chest. “You can’t—Where did you _come_ from?” he wheezes, clutching his shirt over his heart, like that will stop it from bursting from his chest.

Castiel sits in the vacant chair adjacent to Dean and slides Dean’s open book over to him, reading over the page. “The victims were devoured, not regurgitated. It’s also highly unlikely a constrictor would swim this far north from Florida.” He stops, brow furrowing; Dean swallows, throat clicking in the silence between them. “ _This_ is interesting, however.”

“You think it could be a mutant cat?” Dean asks, sitting back with his arms crossed. He watches Castiel read, fingers occasionally turning the page to another section, all seemingly unrelated. “Unless there’s a dog around here I’m not aware of.”

“It could be feline,” Castiel says after a while. He taps his finger on the Baylynx’s name, his other fiddling with the pages, almost jittery. His entire body is vibrating, from what Dean can see; if he were allowed to reach over, he could probably feel it, tense flesh and warm blood, and an undercurrent of something else, something Dean barely wants to admit to himself. “But why it would reveal itself now, is the question.”

“Global warming?” Dean offers. Castiel shoots him a look, and Dean’s stomach nearly drops at the sight of it, his eyes bloodshot around the edges, pupils beginning to shift red. Every instinct tells him to _run_ , drag Castiel back to the Impala so he can figure out what’s going on, and _now_. He sits there instead, fingers gripping his suit jacket tight as he continues, “Water levels could’ve chased it on shore, started snacking on humans. Probably took the shape of some old grandma it saw and started feeding the locals whenever they started acting up.”

“You’re suggesting it lures people in with food,” Castiel states, face blank. Mrs. Travis was the only one who they had met in the last day, aside from the bartender and the receptionist at the motel, and neither of them had offered a full three-course dinner. _This is why you shouldn't eat strange people’s food_ , Dean berates himself, fingers almost white knuckled into his jacket now. “And Mrs. Travis was the only one who’s spoken to us in the last day.” A pause; Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean, lips parted. “You think she cursed us.”

“Sure’s hell looks like it.” He shouldn't touch Castiel, he knows. Still, that doesn't stop him from reaching across and taking his hand, Castiel practically crawling out of his skin from such a simple gesture. Another few seconds and Castiel is calm, albeit shaken; dawning flashes in his eyes for the briefest of seconds. “You freak out when we do this, Cas,” Dean mentions, cautious, stroking this thumb over Castiel’s fever-warm skin. His red eyes grow darker, more desolate. “I think whatever Mrs. Travis is, she’s gotten her teeth in us. And Sam—.”

“Your brother.” Castiel stands before Dean can react, both of his hands pressed flat to the table, fingers straining against the wood. If there weren’t witnesses, Castiel would be on him, tearing into his flesh and shredding him; Dean can tell by the look Castiel gives him, the shuddering breath he exhales, incendiary in the air between them. “Sam doesn’t know. Sam— _Dean_ —.”

“Whoa, _whoa_.” Against his better instincts, Dean rounds the table and clasps Castiel’s shoulders, Castiel entire _aura_ tensing the longer Dean touches him. Castiel burns under his fingertips, fever-stricken and near-rabid. “Nobody’s going anywhere until you explain yourself.”

“On the way,” Castiel pants. “Dean, _please_.”

It’s enough of a distress call to raise the hairs on his neck. Carefully, Dean replaces the books on the shelves under Castiel’s surveillance and leaves the library, hopefully with no one watching. He doesn’t bother to check, too busy making sure Castiel doesn’t sink his teeth in when he’s not paying attention. For the most part, Castiel composes himself until they climb into the front seat, and only then does Castiel actually attempt to attack; Dean pins him to the leather bench, hard, Castiel seething beneath him. “You gonna explain now?”

“Sam,” Castiel wheezes, eyes wide. “Sam isn’t Sam.”

“Yeah, I got that much.” Dean hangs his head, grips Castiel’s wrists tighter. At least it explains the bar and the diner; his heart aches with relief and exhaustion. “What else?”

“You’re too weak,” Castiel says instead, flexing his fingers; Dean purses his lips. “If my Grace was in tact, you wouldn't be holding me down.”

Dean chuckles, shaking his head. Apparently, not only does the curse turn its victims into potentially murderous dogs, but they also spout off the truth, too. Dean clenches his jaw at the idea, letting out a hot breath through his nose. “You got anything else to add? Or am I gonna have to shove you in the trunk?”

Castiel’s smile freezes his bones. “It won’t work, Dean.”

Maybe not, but handcuffing Castiel and throwing him into the backseat at least makes him feel better. Castiel taunts him every few minutes on the drive back, whispering words into his ear that he never wants to hear again, all mentions of the bodies Dean has left behind in ditches and in graveyards, corpses burned and knifed and flayed, sometimes alive. It all leaves Dean reeling, heart rate doubling with every word, with every warm exhale onto his neck, Castiel’s mouth right _there_.

Sam’s not in any better shape when Dean drags Castiel back into the motel, his brother pacing an angry path into the carpet of his and Castiel’s shared room. “You lied,” are Sam’s only words before he slams Dean against the closed door, fingers buried in his shirt collar. Dean cringes at Sam’s eyes, both bloodshot and dilated, his lips bitten red in wait. “You said you were going to the morgue. _Alone_.”

No matter how hard Dean attempts to shove Sam off of him, Sam always returns, his hold even stronger while Castiel watches on, blood welling in the corner of Castiel’s eye. “I asked you to come,” Dean bites back, hands now digging into Sam’s wrists, scalding under his flannel cuffs. Sam crowds him in retaliation, the doorjamb digging hard into Dean’s back, near painful. “But after the shit you pulled at the diner—.”

“I didn’t pull _anything_ ,” Sam growls, low. That same blood drop forms in his eye as well, dripping down his face and into the corner of his mouth. “I’m not the one avoiding my problems by running off to a bar in the middle of _nowhere_ , Dean.”

 _What_. “Dude, what the _hell_ are you talking about? I _asked_ you, that’s what we _do_ —.”

“I never _wanted_ to do this.” Sam shoves him into the door and rears back, just far enough to go for the gun in the back of his pants, barrel pointed in his face. Instinctively, Dean holds his hands up and backs into the door; he has half the mind to run, but the pure thought of being _shot_ in the process—and by his brother, no less—keeps him rooted, fear roiling in his gut. “Did you ever think I wanted this life, Dean? Did you think, in your wildest dreams, that we could actually make a life hustling pool and driving down dirt roads and shooting _monsters_? That’s _your_ dream, Dean. _Not_ mine. I’m not living out some sick fantasy you found in a fucking book.”

Dean swallows, his shoulders slumping, just enough to be noticeable. “Now you know that ain’t true, Sammy—.”

“Don’t _Sammy_ me.” The first hit comes as a shock, the barrel of Sam’s pistol colliding his cheek hard enough to leave an imprint, pain radiating through his jaw. _Don’t be a cracked tooth_. He recovers just in time to feel the gun’s muzzle press to his forehead, the ache in his cheek temporarily forgotten, replaced by immediate panic. “You should’ve stayed in Hell.”

A pause; Dean blinks. “What the hell are you—.”

“He’s right,” Castiel rasps at Sam’s side, both hands twitching, fingers fiddling with his coat cuffs. “I should have never heeded my Father’s call. I should have left you to rot, knowing what terror you’d bring to the Earth if I brought you back.” He closes in, lips curled into a snarl when he presses his forearm to Dean’s neck, keeping him pinned. “I should have let Alistair gut you, for eternity. I wouldn’t have Fallen, I wouldn’t have feuded with my brothers and sisters, I wouldn't have _died_ if it weren’t for you. _You_ broke the Seal, Dean.”

Dean huffs out a laugh, fighting the knot in his throat, the weight of Castiel’s arm on his neck. “This isn’t you,” he says, faking a grin. Neither Sam nor Castiel fall for it; if anything, it only presses Sam on further, thumb cocking his pistol, finger on the trigger. “This is the curse—.”

“You started the apocalypse,” Sam reiterates, the words almost a roar. “You took me away from my _life_. I was done with you and dad, I was done not having birthdays or holidays. I was done following dad around the country on some sort of revenge trip. I was _done_ watching you try to drown yourself in whiskey. And what, you thought just because my _girlfriend_ died, that I’d magically wanna pick up my gun and go shoot bad guys?” A laugh, broken; Sam shoves the gun against his forehead harder, hand shaking. “This isn’t my dream.”

Dean can’t take it—can’t stand to listen to them anymore, can’t stand to see the anger in their eyes. Because all of it is true—the insecurity, the irrational need for companionship, the guilt over an event he wasn’t even _aware_ of—and now they’re throwing it in his face. Nausea sweeps through him the longer they stare, the longer they drone on, their words nothing but a buzz in his ears.

“Everything you touch dies, Dean,” Castiel hisses, shoves him harder; Dean closes his eyes against the tears that spill over, breaths coming in fragile bursts. “I never should have been brought back, if it meant I have to watch you fail. Weak, insignificant, a _useless_ shell of a man.”

“Dad never should’ve traded his soul for you,” Sam chimes in, and Dean’s eyes snap open, long enough to see a red film cover Sam’s entire eye, blood spilling over. _They’re gonna die, and they’re gonna take me with them_ ; that alone sends another rush of tears down his face, all unnoticed. “Jess was your fault. If you never would’ve shown up, none of this would’ve happened.”

“You think you deserve nothing because of your father,” Castiel continues, scarlet eyes wide. “Maybe that’s just you, though. Your entire existence is marred by the fact that you’re so damned, you can’t believe that anyone cares for you. No one does.” And Castiel laughs in his face, Sam joining in. “I don’t care whether you live or die, after what you’ve done to me. My wings are _dying_ , _Dean_. All because of you.”

“Our family is dead.” Save shoves the pistol one more time, eyes narrowed; Dean closes his own and waits for death. “Mom, dad, Jo, Ellen—They all died for nothing. And now,” he stops, laughs, “we’re gonna make sure it stops with you.”

“You’re right.” The words rush out before he can stop, his mouth working faster than his brain. He doesn’t look at them through it, just keeps his eyes jammed shut. “All my life, all I’ve done is fuck it up for you, and I should’ve left you at Stanford. Shoulda never let you get back in the car. Shoulda never let Cas drag my sorry ass outta Hell.” Slumping, Castiel lets him fall to his knees, his head bowed. _Just make it quick_. “Shoulda killed myself years ago.”

 The resulting pause is disheartening, only the cicada’s distant cry breaking through the silence. Sam drops the gun, nearly startling Dean into a scream. But he’s unarmed—they’re not actively attempting to strangle him anymore. If anything, Castiel is on the floor with him, Sam still standing at his front, both of their eyes unclouded, hazel and blue staring back at him in absolute _horror_. “Dean.” Sam’s voice breaks through first, harrowed; kneeling, he pulls Dean to his chest, Dean practically collapsing into his hold. “Dean, I’m—.”

“Don’t.” Dean stops him— _both_ of them—with one word; still, he can't bring himself to move away, fatigue weighing down his soul. Even Castiel’s hand between his shoulders doesn’t help, only tears him apart further when he can feel it shaking, fingers clutching his shirt like a lifeline. “’M fine,” he lies; he knows neither of them believe it.

If only he could, himself.

-+-

Knowing how quickly all three of them had become susceptible to the curse didn’t help to make Dean feel any better, even as the hours went on into the night. Sam bore the worst of the guilt, apparently; Dean didn't blame him, either. An entire lifetime’s worth of anger could only be contained for so long, and now Dean had to thank some crazy cat monster for getting his brother to tell him how he _really_ felt. Jess’ death had been unavoidable from the start, but that didn't stop either of them from carrying the weight, Sam worst of all.

Really, Dean should have blamed his _father_ for all of this. If they had even had the _inkling_ of a normal life, then maybe they wouldn't be hotel hopping every week across the country. Some people live for that experience—to Dean, it’s only a burden, a legacy he doesn't want to carry on. But he has to—someone has to take out the creatures walking the night, and if it can be him, then so be it. And as long as the apocalypse is nigh and Castiel is stuck bumming in the backseat, they’re stuck together. _For better or worse_ , Dean muses, mournful.

It’s quiet that night, the moon having risen only hours ago, long after Sam and Castiel apologized for the twentieth time, with talk of _feelings_ and _sincerity_. It all made him want to gag, the memory still too fresh. It was all Dean’s fault, really; maybe if Dean hadn’t suggested the case in the first place, none of this would have happened. All three of them would have gone on harboring ill will towards each other until _something_ tipped the scales, and decidedly not in their favor. Sam had been reluctant to leave, and only upon Castiel’s assurance did he return to his own adjoining room, door shut behind him.

Even with Castiel’s warmth at his back, Dean can’t sleep, can’t look at anything other than the pistol on the nightstand and the door. Castiel pulls him closer with an arm around his waist, and Dean belatedly thinks he’s awake, probably reading his thoughts, a failing attempt to keep him safe. But Castiel is asleep, dead to the world. Even the cicadas and the frogs aren’t joining in tonight, their cries long since died out, now a phantom ache in his ears. Ever since they arrived in Eulonia, those _damn_ bugs had screamed, incessant, jarring when they walked outside and only temporarily muted when they returned.

Until now. For the first time in days, he can actually think without something burrowing away in his brain, the effects of the curse long since faded. Maybe the cries were his imagination; maybe they were just a premonition of things to come.

Whatever it is, Dean pushes the thought away and, carefully, slides himself free of Castiel’s hold. The pistol is only an afterthought, he lies to himself as he shoves it down the back of his jeans. _Just protection_. From what, he doesn’t know. Just leaves the hotel room without so much as a note, closing the door soundlessly behind him. Sam and Castiel won’t know—won’t have to worry about him, anymore.

The creek leading into the Altamaha is only a few hundred yards away, far enough for Dean to need to follow the roadway to find it. The stars watch on in silent vigil, mournful twinkles lighting the sky; he pays them no mind, just walks into the water off the side of the road, far out of the way of passersby and any wandering eyes from homeowners. Murky water sloshes around his boots the deeper he walks, pants soggy.

 _They won’t have to deal with me_ , he thinks the further he treads, until the mouth of the creek flows into the river, docks and boats and the light from a lighthouse his guide. Something growls at him from the banks, low, reverberating; he doesn't notice, just stares at the beacon and draws his gun, barrel to his mouth. _Sammy can go live his life. Cas can go back to heaven._ His hands shake; his eyes close. _I can see mom again_.

Quiet—uninterrupted, deafening, quiet.

The cat is on him before he can fire, his pistol lost to the river’s depths. Claws and teeth tear into his flesh, and by some miracle he pulls himself away, his shoulder bleeding as he drags himself to shore. One of its fangs protrudes from his ribcage, and only after he spots the Baylynx’s bloody maw does he remove it, in a last ditch effort to defend himself. _Let it kill you_ , a voice tells him. _Let it eat you_.

The Baylynx slogs through the waters, mouth wet with Dean’s blood and its own, the missing fang only putting a minor dent in the massive collection in its mouth. At least two rows of teeth, sharp and serrated at the ends—Dean counts it as a miracle that it didn’t tear his entire arm off. It lets out a hiss and flips its tail from side to side, skimming the water’s surface. “Don’t just stand there,” Dean shouts, near hysteric. “Don’t just—do it already,” he calls. “ _Please_.”

It doesn’t wait; Dean never expected it to. It throws its entire weight onto him in one pounce, jaws wide, almost inviting. But death doesn't come for him—a brilliant flash of white does instead, accompanied by the shrill sound of something _burning alive_. Dean sits up, ignoring the flare of pain in his shoulder, and watches _Castiel_ drown the Baylynx in the Altamaha, the flames previously engulfing the creature snuffing out as it sinks, as the water swallows its existence whole.

And then there’s nothing. Nothing but the sound of his own labored breathing and Castiel’s voice calling to him, asking him what he _possibly_ could have been thinking. All he can come up with is, “I wanted to die,” and buries his head in Castiel’s chest, revels in the feel of Castiel’s arms around him, Castiel’s mouth pressed to his hair. “Don’t tell Sammy,” he says, voice choked between agony and embarrassment. “Please—Don’t say—.”

“Don’t tell me,” Castiel urges, just as distraught; he holds Dean tighter, fingers clutching his muddied skin. “You don’t need to tell me anything.”

“’M sorry,” Dean cries. His body falls lax, from blood loss and exhaustion. Whether Castiel will heal him or not, he doesn't care. “Wanna go home, Cas. Let me go home, please.”

“I can’t let you do that.” With the last of his Grace, Castiel places his palm to Dean’s wounds and knits them back together. Surface injuries; the damage to his soul is greater. The only thing Castiel can’t fix. Still, Castiel tries. He’ll always try, as long as he’s there, stuck in the middle of the end times with no way to get back home.

Maybe it’s better this way, Dean considers through the tears. Maybe, even if Castiel blames him for falling, even if Sam blames him for living, maybe he can at least hold onto them, for however long they have left, however fleeting it is. “Don’t go,” is all he can mutter in the dark, his shaking hands held in Castiel’s. “Don’t leave me.”

Castiel lets out a breath, sags. “I won’t.”

-+-

They don’t speak for a record nine hours. Neither party are prepared to discuss the consequences of their actions, especially after Castiel had dragged Dean through the door of his and Castiel’s motel room, dripping with swamp water and covered in his own blood. Castiel had laid Dean’s pistol on the table next to where where Sam had been sitting, that one object enough of an answer for all of them.

Dean didn’t discuss it—Didn’t do anything aside from lock himself in the bathroom and sob himself sick under the shower spray, until he vomited what he swallowed of the river and whiskey down the drain. Castiel had listened on outside the door, no doubt with his back pressed to the wood; if Sam had been there, Dean didn’t recall.

Night had persisted like an abyss above Eulonia, Dean curled into himself on his side of the mattress, blindly staring out the half-open window while Castiel had stood vigil at his side, never once making a move to touch him, probably too ashamed to even venture closer than he had to. Dean didn’t blame him, honestly; he couldn’t blame either of them, not after everything he had put them through over the years, every trial and tribulation and test of faith, all for nothing.

Dean had clutched the sheets closer and watched the moon rise above the willows, sleep forgone for keeping himself from finishing the job, from turning over and pulling Castiel closer and telling him that none of it meant anything, that the memory would fade. The lies, the deceit, the pain would all fade until new experiences replaced them, an endless cycle until it happened again, until Dean shoved a gun down his throat and fired.

On the table, his pistol glimmered in the moonlight; Dean had covered his face and closed his eyes, wished for the night to swallow him whole.

Morning greets him before he can pull himself from his stupor, sunlight seeping through the curtains straight into his eyes. Dean rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, letting out a haggard breath into the aged down. Softly, Castiel wanders the room, presumably shoving his things into his duffel. They’re leaving soon, Dean knows, can feel the lull in the air where none of them have a set destination in mind. Sam’s probably already found a case, is probably already packing the car in anticipation of Dean dragging himself out of bed.

None of those things are apparent when Dean pulls himself from bed; Castiel is gone, Sam now in his place, solemnly packing away Castiel and Dean’s clothes in their separate bags near the door, including whatever coffee packs are left over from the carousel by the television. It would be endearing if it didn’t kill Dean, watching his brother go through the motions in a failing attempt to remain invisible, out of sight and mind until they were forced to sit in the car for the day, week, ever.

Dean’s voice fails him when he tries to speak, voice still shot from hours before, the taste of the river still in his mouth. But somehow, Sam hears him and stops, lets Dean’s bag drop by the front door. Sam wrings his hands, knuckles rubbed raw in the interim; he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve Dean dragging him across the country every day and night because Dean has a complex and can’t bear to be alone.

Sam doesn’t speak, his apology lost. Dean hears it all the same and before Sam can even open his mouth, throws Sam into a crushing embrace and digs his fingers into his shirt, never intending to let go. Sam lets out a short whine and hugs Dean back, uncaring that Dean slept in his underwear and still smells of the river. “Not now,” Dean hushes, clutching Sam tighter. One day, he’ll tell Sam that it’s not his fault, that it was never his fault in the first place. The blame lies on their father, but Dean will carry the burden until it kills him.

They don’t separate for a long few minutes, Dean content to revel in what he has for a moment longer. Eventually, he pats Sam’s back and pulls away, scrubbing his face with both hands. “Think we’ll stay another day,” Dean says, muffled. “Go see the beach or somethin’.”

“We can do that,” Sam replies, his voice rasping; if he’s been crying, Dean doesn’t look, can’t bear to see.

He leaves soon after, the door clicking shut behind him. From the fridge, Dean digs out a beer and sets it on the desk, along with a few bottles of water and a milk carton that wasn’t there last night. Castiel must have gone to the store this morning; whatever else he bought, Dean can’t find it in the room.

What he finds instead is Castiel standing at his back, in new sweatpants and one of Dean’s worn sleep shirts, a towel draped over his shoulders. _Shower_ , Dean thinks; he itches to reach up and tousle Castiel’s hair, still wet at the ends. “Looks good like that,” Dean manages, turns before Castiel can notice how distraught he looks or the red flush creeping up his neck. He goes for the beer instead, twisting off the cap with the intent to swallow the entire bottle in one go.

Castiel stops him with a hand to his wrist, gentle fingers cupping delicate skin and coaxing him to leave it on the desk. Dean does so willingly and turns, lets Castiel tip his chin up to meet his gaze. Dark circles decorate the skin beneath Castiel’s eyes, worry furrowing his brow until Dean leans forward, practically falling into his embrace. Castiel holds him as a lover, tucks Dean’s face into his neck and whispers soft praise into his ear, smoothes a hand down his spine to rest at his hip.

“You’re alright,” Castiel hushes, pulls Dean flush. “You’re safe now.”

Dean makes a noise into Castiel’s shirt, halfway torn between a sob and elation. “Not your fault,” he mutters, clinging to Castiel like a lifeline. “Not your—.”

“It’s not yours either.” Castiel finishes with a kiss to Dean’s hair, rests his forehead to Dean’s temple. “Believe me.”

He can’t—but maybe, just _once_ , he can try.

**Author's Note:**

> I've struggled with this from day one, mostly because I'm in a weird rut and this is what came out of it. But, it's done now! Also, thanks to both Muse and Liv for reading this over, and for [Litra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/litra) for the artwork! Thank you to everyone!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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